


War Never Changes

by Pipamonium



Series: Scenes [4]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Gen, Honest Hearts ending, I cannot play this DLC and not think of the opening speech, I tried to keep the gore down but I'm a detail oriented person, fight through the Three Marys, probably overdone but oh well, small amount of philosophizing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-04 16:08:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3073970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pipamonium/pseuds/Pipamonium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say war never changes, and maybe they’re right.</p><p>Perhaps it’s not so much the war that doesn't change but the warriors themselves that stay the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Writing challenge for this story - fight scenes! I've written lead up's and after-effects but I've never made the plunge and wrote an actual fight/battle scene. This chapter is dipping my big toe in and seeing if I can write an overview of a small scuffle. Next chapter will, if I stick to my plan, include a battle and two fights.
> 
> Update: It's February 1st and I JUST realized I made a major boo-boo. *headdesk* I mentioned there were 'a half dozen' tribals with Joshua and the courier and then later I said he ordered nearly all of them away and left them with only 'five'. According to my math - 1 is most of 6. I have no one to blame but myself for not having anything but a series of screen captures (from multiple play throughs) to use as a story-board. I am writing the next chapter I've just run into an awkward writers block. I'm having no trouble with each scene I'm just having a hell of a time writing the bridges between that tie everything together into a cohesive masterpiece.

They say war never changes, and maybe they’re right. Maybe we are just rats stuck in a maze doomed to repeat the same pointless mistakes over, and over, and over again. Fight the same battles for the same ideals. With no one except the winners to write the history books naming who was ‘right’ and who ‘wrong’. Maybe it is all humanity is good for. Maybe it’s what we’re bred for. Like fighting dogs, pitted against each other for the entertainment of higher beings. Maybe they place bets on who will win, on how long each player can hold out, on how many we take down with us in our final blaze of glory.

The sounds of battle ebbed and flowed around her, rising and falling but never, ever, disappearing. The canyon walls somehow managed to both amplify and swallow sounds. Echoes bounced crazily around in an utterly disorientating manner. It wasn’t just the crackling of gun fire she heard - no, it was the victorious war-cries in alien languages meshing friend and foe, the keening cries of the injured and dying, the sporadic explosions from the White Legs’ Light-Bringers. Everything became so mixed up and mangled she found herself incapable of telling which direction it was coming from, let alone how far away it was.

Although she understood why, a large part of her was pretty pissed at Joshua for making her run point. He wasn’t far behind her though. Anything that could take her out would likely get him, too. There were at least two dozen warriors flanking them, so she was far from alone - she was just the furthest one forward. Her palms felt sweaty which gave her an intense urge to wipe them on her pants, which would be fruitless. She was crouched in a stream with the water lapping at her thighs. Whether her hands were as sweaty as they felt or it was fear getting at her, running them on her pants would only dampen her grip further.

She is not a coward. She’s taken on entire Viper gang raiding parties by herself for the sheer fun of it. Granted, she struck from a distance with a silenced weapon and, generally speaking, by the time anyone figured out what direction she was shooting from, she was catching the last asshole between the eyes. If she were feeling particularly sadistic - or merciful depending on your semantics - she would take pot-shots at raiders sitting pretty at their infamous ambush points, take out a limb here and there, mostly just shake them up to watch them scurry about like an angry nest of cazadors. It was particularly amusing when a caravan was incoming so the guards would enter the fray with guns blazing, scattering the raiders to the wind even further. Her most memorable shot was when she’d managed to skip a .308 round across a Powder Gangers ass and bury it in his buddy’s hip. She’d fired one shot then laughed herself half-silly when the catcher yowled like a thing possessed. The first guy took a moment for the pain to catch up to him. When it did, he screeched, grabbed his injured arse, and leapt out of his hiding spot to hightail it across the road into the mountains. There’d been an unseen third man. He practically threw his dynamite straight up in the air and surrendered.

No, she knew cowards and she was not one. So why? Why couldn’t she remember if she had fired a shot? She knew Joshua had fired over her shoulder, her eardrum was ringing proof. Her gun was raised and pointed - did she unload her clip? Had she even hit anything? A body drifted past her, carried on by the creek’s current. Just moments before It had been standing before her. It had come from nowhere and raised Its gun. In an utterly nonsensical way, time had seemed to simultaneously slow down and speed up. She could swear she saw It tighten Its finger around the trigger but she couldn’t recall the gun actually firing. A bullet fanned her neck and the water around her churned as it was peppered with a hail of bullets. Its face had twisted in savage glee. White Legs were born and bred for this kind of fighting, so she supposed it made sense that It would get a good thrill from this, instead of the gut-churning terror she felt. She wasn’t sure where it started, let alone what order it happened in, but It had just sort of self-destructed before her. A bullet caught It in the base of the throat, another caught It below the right eye. A fist-sized chunk blew out of Its left side under the ribs. Bone was exposed when a round caught It at just the right angle to flense the flesh from the out-facing side of Its arm, and pink mist exploded from Its chest trailing a bullet as it passed through the lung. Statistically speaking at least one of the shots had to have been hers. If she could just remember if she had even managed to fire a single round.

She was thankful to discover, upon becoming fully cognizant of her surroundings once more, than while her mind wrestled to assimilate and reorder itself her body had switched to autopilot. She continued to lead the war party forward, grown in considerable size, with a calm confidence she did not feel. The full moon hung fat and heavy directly overhead, bathing everything in a cool light. Torches burned intermittently along the shore, less to see by and more to mark paths. She found herself unexpectedly glad for the small mercy, it was enough for her to be able to make out the tendrils of pink and red that leaked from the dead and dying, making streaks through the water - she did not need to see the tint of colour to the splotches of glittering wetness that decorated the sands and rocks as well.

Considering the number of warriors slogging through the water, Six’s group made a surprisingly little amount of noise. She had to wonder if the sounds of battle were really dimming or if she was becoming deaf to the non-immediate threats. The group came around a bend and found themselves in a straightaway. The White Legs had a camp up a steep pathway to the right, evidenced by the shadows which flickered about the high walls cast there by the myriad campfires burning brightly just out of eyesight. Joshua urged her to ignore the fight, to keep moving forward, they had to get to Salt-Upon-Wounds as quickly as possible. He did order more than half of the tribal’s with them to peel off and aide their brethren on the slopes, keeping only nine with him. She was under no delusion, both the Dead Horses and Sorrows seemed to like her well enough but none fought for or ‘with’ her, they were here now for him and him alone. If she fell over dead right now they might feel a little sad at the end of things, might even honour her for her willingness to fight their battles with them, but they wouldn’t really care - not really.

A light flared overhead, but it was the following blood-curdling screech that caught Six’s attention and made her pause. In less time than it took to cycle through a full breath a body, wreathed in fire, fell from the cliff. Bringing with it the wafting stench of singed hair and burnt flesh. It landed on its belly with its upper half partially submerged, its face was toward Six - not that there was much there to see. No, not a body, a woman. From what tribe was impossible to tell between the second and third degree burns and the mangling from the fall all identifying marks had been obliterated. Six watched her scrabble lamely with one working arm, trying to drag herself further into the water or push herself out. Her other arm had an obvious compound fracture of the forearm, the matching leg was bent in several different directions in places that should never - ever - bend. The simple fact that the woman was trying so desperately to move but there wasn’t even the slightest twitch from below the waist led Six to believe she had broken her spine as well. If she survived she would be lucky not to be blind, deaf, dumb, and lame. No one reacted to her mercy killing.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps it’s not so much the war that doesn’t change but the warriors themselves that stay the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… the original plan for this chapter was two fight scenes and a battle overview. Not gonna happen. Been dealing with an awkward form of writers block which has made it hard for me to write the bridges between scenes - combined with the surprising amount of detail I wrote considering the entire chapter is (more-or-less) one little fight... I decided to screw it and make the story four chapters instead of three. The next chapter should NOT take as long to be uploaded as this one did.
> 
> When reading - please keep in mind that the entire fight takes place in a span of only a few minutes. It’s supposed to be quick and brutal. I probably re-wrote each part a dozen times a piece at least. I tried very hard to curb my tendency to verboseness (not sure if I failed or not) and find a balance with the detail to give enough to not loose the reader but still give the feeling of urgency and speed. Please! Let me know how I did.
> 
> See below for my cliff notes.

They say war never changes. Perhaps it’s not so much the war that doesn’t change but the warriors themselves that stay the same. Even when a nuclear holocaust forces a restart on the human cultural evolution some things… well some things come about as if hardwired into our DNA. Such as the driving need for a collective identity. War paints, tattoos, masks, uniforms, berets, power armour - none of them mean a thing on their own, but applied to a group they become incorporated into the identity of the mass and eventually the identities of each individual. Given enough time the two become inseparable. While it can be a source of great strength for the collective, it can also be exploited by just about anyone with enough guile. Six had often abused her knowledge of the factions throughout the Mojave to pass unmolested through dangerous territories and approach otherwise well defended targets. This night would pass so much smoother if she could have applied those skills here.

Six spotted movement just past a large boulder some half dozen meters ahead. She automatically slowed her movement, sure an ambush was being hastily assembled, and began to assess her options. They were in a particularly narrow space with nowhere to go but forward or backwards. Even if they did turn back there was no rout up and around this stretch of waterway. A better ambush point couldn’t have been found if one were trying. Damn. Six could practically feel Joshua breathing down the back of her neck, urging her non-too-gently to get a move on already.

Standing, Six prepared herself to rush the boulder. If she hurried fast enough she might catch the White Legs by surprise. She hadn’t even managed three steps before a war cry rent the air and figures came sprinting out of the shadows. Two came towards Six’s side while three more broke to the right. In the lead was a bear of a man wielding a .45 auto SMG. His cry was the loudest, his eyes blazed the brightest in bloodlust, and by all rights he should be the scariest of the bunch. His sheer stupidity almost made her laugh. Here he was, with a gun, and he was more interested in bowling them over with his body instead of with lead. He wasn’t even aiming the damned thing, just kind of carrying it like a blackjack that he planned to use to bludgeon them upside the head.

Without hesitation, Six brought her gun up to bear and squeezed off two shots in quick succession. Both took the brute in the gut forcing his steps to falter and his body to fold over on itself. Not quite what she had intended, she had been looking for a pair of chest shots if not headshots but she’d pulled the trigger a little early. Worked out just fine in the end as a Dead Horse stepped in and brought a war club down hard on the back of the White Legs neck with an audible crunch. The impact caused the White Leg to go limp and topple over face first into the drink where he just sort of bobbed there like a fishing lure. As he fell, the Dead Horse grabbed hold of the SMG and slipped it out of his grasp. The gun was brought around and a stream of bullets was released across the way into another White Leg who had a rebar club raised high and ready to swing. She shuddered and jerked as the majority of bullets found their marks but SMG’s are not the most accurate gun and a few rounds went wild. One even managed to wing a friendly.

A Sorrows leapt forward to engage a White Leg armed with a mantis gauntlet. The pair of woman danced about one another trading blows. The Sorrows managed to rake the claws of her yao guai gauntlet down the unprotected forearm of her opponent’s off arm shredding the flesh. The White Leg retaliated with a counter attack that found her poisoned weapon catching the Sorrows in the side and skimming along her waist. She stepped back and prepared for a second blow that never landed. Her movement had given both Joshua and Six a clear shot which they took in tandem. Both bullets caught her in the face and caused her head to pop, spattering the nearest tribals with gore. An eyeball floated towards Six, she batted it aside with a grimace of disgust and looked over to see how the other half of the group fared.

On the heels of the brute, a young woman armed with nothing but a hatchet pelted towards the tribals on the right. A tomahawk flew over her shoulder from the trailing White Leg causing two tribals to drive out of the way in opposing directions. A third was too slow and the tomahawk found its mark in his pelvis. He dropped his free hand to the handle, his grip fluttering in his indecision to leave it in or take it out. Hatchet growled low in her throat as she came within reach of her enemy. She swung her weapon in violent but controlled arcs, easily tracking and trading blows with not one but two combatants.

The Dead Horse who dove left into deeper water pushed off the creek bed and burst up, beads of water flying from her body, prepared to lunge forward and join the fight. What she wasn’t prepared for was a White Leg swinging a rebar club like an old world golfer with her head firmly lined up as the ball. She had just enough time to change her forward momentum to ducking right before the club descended on her. Instead of caving in the back of her head, the blow glanced off the side of her skull skimming her ear. Toppled back into the water, the woman flipped over as quickly as she could and raised her war club into a defensive position. Through blurred eyes she watched as the White Leg jerked and shuddered above her, rebar club slipping from numbed hands as vivid red bloomed across her painted torso and ran rivulets through the caked war paint. The White Leg fell to her knees and collapsed forward.

The Dead Horse who dove right rolled through the shallows and came to his feet on the creek bank. Taking a moment to asses the situation, he takes advantage of the firm ground to sprint forward and engage an incoming White Leg armed with a fire axe. He only takes a handful of steps when a searing pain tears through his upper arm, knocking him sideways into the cliff wall. The inaccuracy of SMG’s meant that several of the bullets fired went wild and one just so happened to have found its way through the meatier portion of his bicep. The shot was a through and through, missing both bone and artery. The injury was not life threatening, as long as he managed to stem the bleeding before blood loss complicated things. As it was his off arm that was wounded he opted to fight on, he could tend to himself once the immediate threat was neutralized.

A loud splintered crack heralded the death of a war club. A poorly timed block found a hatchet buried a good two-thirds of the way through the wooden body. A twist of the wrist as the hatchet disengaged and swiftly turned to block an incoming yao guai gauntlet, snapped the head of the club clean off, leaving the Dead Horse with two useless halves. The momentary shock at the loss of the weapon was the opening the White Leg needed. Driving her shoulder squarely into the middle of his chest, she forced the air from his lungs. The collision forced him to stumble back several steps and fall to one knee, allowing him time to catch his breath and regroup. He was effectively disarmed and, therefore, close to useless, he would need to find a replacement and quickly if he were to prove his worth.

Having used the Dead Horse as a springboard, the White Leg launched herself at her remaining opponent with a fresh verve. She showed clear disdain for her fallen opponent by turning her back on him and giving herself fully to the Sorrows girl who valiantly tried to hold her back solitarily when it had taken both her and the Dead Horse’s combined effort to keep the White Leg in check. Her eyes aglow with malicious glee, the hatchet wielding woman seemed to vibrate with the desire to unleash herself upon the teenager she faced and hack her apart piece by piece. She held back, wise enough in the ways of war to know that this was not the time or place to loose herself in the red haze, and continued to press her advantage with precise slashes designed to fluster her opponent.

To her credit, the young Sorrows girl was able to keep up with the White Leg enough to avoid injuries beyond superficial lacerations for the most part. A gash running along her right cheekbone bled freely. The girl saw her opportunity to strike when the advancing White Leg stepped wrong. Her forward foot slipped, forcing her to throw her off arm out for balance. Her occupied arm, having already drawn back in preparation for the next swing, left her vulnerable belly open to attack. Committing fully to the attack, the Sorrows girl was unable to avoid disaster. It had been a calculated risk, feigning the stumble and purposely leaving herself open, but one that had paid off. The White Leg brought her empty hand around to latch onto her opponents gauntleted arm. Jerking the girl towards her to pull her off balance and pushing her arm out from her body to leave her defenceless, the White Leg aimed her hatchet for the junction of the girls neck and shoulder.

A large hand caught the White Legs wrist, instantly halting the motion of the hatchet. The weapon-less Dead Horse did not give his quarry time to react. He pushed up on her wrist in time to the downward motion he exerted on her elbow with his other hand, wrenching her shoulder and causing her grip on the hatchet to loosen. He continued to apply steady pressure, twisting her arm further and further back, hyper extending her shoulder. The fiery pain of the dislocating joint forced her to drop both the hatchet and the girl’s arm. She pushed through the pain in a desperate attempt to turn and get at the man holding her. Her scream of fury was cut off with a wet squelch. The freed Sorrows girl stood, with a dripping gauntlet, watching with cold eyes as the White Leg ceased her struggles and brought her trembling hand to her throat. Her fingers brushed the skin below the wound that severed her vocal chords. Warmth pulsed out of her neck from her punctured carotid artery, striking her own arm as well as Sorrows girl before her. In silence, the White Leg slipped into death, face frozen in shock and disbelief. The Dead Horse tossed her corpse to the side, bending to claim his prize from the creek bed. The hatchet would make a passable replacement for his broken war club.

Pink foam was just visible in the corner of the last White Legs’ mouth. He had been armed with a tomahawk early on, but now fought with his primary weapon, a fire axe. When he’d first engaged the Sorrows woman, even when the first Dead Horse had joined the fray, he had the advantage with his weapon. Unlike a hatchet, the fire axe was a two handed weapon with a long handle. He could widen his grip to give himself more control of the sharp end, and even be able to utilize the handle as a defensive measure, or he could bring both hands closer to the end of the handle and therefore extend his reach. The head of the axe contains a much larger blade and a sharp pick point on the reverse, making it potentially deadly on both the fore- and back- swing.

Two targets he could handle. It was a simple matter of constantly moving, of not letting either out of sight. Three however, three was an impossibility. With three targets it wasn’t a question of weather he would win or lose, but of how quickly he would lose. At his front was the Sorrows woman, she attacked relentlessly. Most were feigned, testing him and searching for weaknesses. They kept his attention primarily on her, as soon as he let it waver she was prepared to follow through. Gashes on his chest and thigh were the proof. Circling to his right was a female Dead Horse and to his left a male.

The long reach of his weapon meant he could keep them at bay most of the time, plus his constant movement disallowed either Dead Horse to move behind him. However, when they moved in tandem, putting him in the middle, he knew he was screwed. One would lunge forward and he would be forced to turn more attention towards him/her leaving him vulnerable to the other. A wild swing of his axe would force all three back a pace and he would move out of position. All too soon the cycle would repeat.

Breathing was becoming increasingly difficult. The pain from multiple cracked ribs was bad enough, but at least one was broken and had punctured a lung which meant he was slowly drowning in his own blood. He had been focusing most of his attacks on the Dead Horse to his left, the one with the obvious gunshot wound to the upper arm. He was sure the blood loss would make him the weak link but the Dead Horse seemed to have a good grasp on his capabilities even with the injury and managed to stay out of reach. The other had no visible wounds, other than the superficial, and yet she was slowing. It wasn’t something painfully obvious like the others’ wound. He wouldn’t have even noticed if his pick point hadn’t nicked her earlier on a backswing. Quick as he could, he turned to face her head on. He was fully aware that he was leaving himself wide open to attack from the others, but if he could take her out of the equation he would have a much better chance.

She tried to dodge the blow, but she was too slow. He had been aiming for the spot where her neck and shoulder joined. A last minute adjustment caused him to miss by inches. The sharp edge of the axe sunk deep into her shoulder - too deep. The flesh held on tight, refusing his insistent pulling to free the weapon. A fiery pain, chased by numbness, raced down his arm from a blow to his shoulder blade. He yanked frantically on the axe, anything to free it. The blade shifted and a jet of blood pumped from the wound, the subclavian artery had been cut. Hands worked against him - one pulled back on the handle, the other scrambled against his fingers every bit as desperate for him to release as he was to regain his weapon.

A yao guai claw racked across his face, blinding him instantly. Shock caused him to release his hold, he heard the Dead Horse splashes as she backed away but the disorienting pain made it impossible for him to tell which direction she went in. He flailed with one arm, looking for something - anything - to use as a weapon. His other hand he brought to his face. He tried to wipe the blood away and clear his vision. He had hardly enough time to wonder if he even still had eyes, not enough to understand what he felt in answer - no, he didn’t. A war club came down on his reaching hand, hard enough to shatter the bones. The same club came up to snap his head back. He teetered but caught his balance. Moments later he was on his knees, curled over on himself with both hands pressed to his belly in a vain attempt to keep the slippery innards where they belonged. The pain so intense he couldn’t feel a thing beyond the cold water swirling around his thighs.

“Eno! Hah go - baika-me yoo devil!” he growled out. He was fading fast between the blood loss from his face and his belly, never mind the punctured lung and the fact that his guts were literally spilling out. His enemies wouldn’t even grant him the dignity of dying in battle, instead leaving him to a pitifully protracted death.

_< Translation> Enough! Come here and kill me you devils!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all - I did not picture the White Legs running in one at a time to be mowed down like noobs. They attacked together as a unit with those who were fastest engaging first. The Axe man on the right side was so slow to engage because he was an idiot who ran straight at his enemy and therefore had to slog through deeper water (I picture it up to his hips) which slowed him greatly.
> 
> If I remember the game correctly there is a spot with a giant boulder right before you make the turn into the large scale scripted battle. Around the boulder the water is very deep and there are places where you switch to swim mode which can screw you up if you’re trying to fight the pocket of White Legs that ‘ambushes’ you so it’s best to hug the shoreline as you pass the boulder. That’s why I have Six’s group split into ‘left’ and ‘right’ sides.
> 
> On the Left:  
> Storm-Drummer - .45 auto SMG (Male)  
> Bone-Breaker - mantis gauntlet (Female)
> 
> Dead Horse (2) - war club (Male)  
> Sorrows - yao guai gauntlet (Female)  
> Joshua - .45 auto pistol (Male)  
> Six - silenced .45 auto pistol (Female)
> 
> On the Right:  
> Pain-Maker - hatchet (Female)  
> Storm-Drummer - rebar club (Female)  
> Pain-Maker - tomahawk and fire axe (Male)
> 
> Sorrows (3) - yao guai gauntlet (Male, 2 Female)  
> Dead Horse (3) - war club (2 Male, Female)
> 
> Cliff Notes of Full Fight:  
> White Legs are referred to by their shortened weapon name. Dead Horses and Sorrows are referred to by their direction (L,R), their gender (F,M), their tribe (DH,S), and their number as needed
> 
> SMG led the attack on the left, Hatchet on the right  
> SMG is shot by Six in the gut  
> Tomahawk is through by Axe past Hatchet  
> RFDH dives left, RMDH1 dives right, RMS is hit in the pelvis and unable to continue  
> Hatchet engages RFS1 and RMDH2  
> Club skirts Hatchet and moves up the middle  
> LMDH1 disarms and kills SMG  
> RMDH1 rolls onto the creek bank and runs forward to engage Axe  
> RFDH pops up out of the water and is injured by Club  
> Hatchet breaks RMDH2’s weapon and turns full attention on RFS1  
> LMDH1 fires upon and kills Club, a stray bullet hits RMDH1 before he reaches Axe  
> RMDH2 immobilizes and disarms Hatchet, RFS1 kills Hatchet  
> RFS2 engages Axe  
> LFS engages Gauntlet  
> RMDH1 and RFDH join RFS2  
> LFS and Gauntlet injure one another  
> Axe severely injures RFDH, she is unable to continue  
> Six and Joshua kill Gauntlet  
> RFS2 blinds Axe, RMDH1 injures Axe, RFS2 kills Axe  
> Note: LMDH2 does nothing of note during the fight, I imagine he provides first aide immediately following the fight

**Author's Note:**

> I did my research and followed the axiom - write what you know. This is what I came up with:  
> ANYONE can freeze - the difference between an amateur and a seasoned veteran is how quickly they snap out of it  
> Often times those who prepare for danger (like Six going into the chasm and knowing what was coming but not how it would present itself) are the most likely to succumb to a freeze  
> When someone freezes their thought processes become highly illogical but seem crystal clear at the time
> 
> My apologies if Six feels a little... damsel-in-distress-y in this chapter. When I read other peoples work the Courier is always a BAMF no matter the situation s/he finds her/himself. It gets a little boring after a while so I wanted to make a more realistic person (who managed to survive a bullet to the brain without 'proper' medical facilities but whatever) with weaknesses as well as strengths. Naturally she'd play to her strengths whenever and wherever possible but there really isn't good places to snipe from once you reach the Three Marys. I also like to think she might have a touch of PTSD when it comes to having the business end of handguns pointed at her or the sound of them.
> 
> Any philosophizing you may see is from Six. Write what you know and all. It's something I do. When I feel myself panicking, over thinking/analysing, or otherwise breaking my ability to focus on what I need to, I do something you'd think would make it worse. I disassociate the part of myself that's freaking out and I give it something to ruminate on to keep it busy and out of the way while the rest of me keeps on keeping on.


End file.
